Hello! Welcome to my blog! Here I post my thoughts about my family and whatever else I feel like talking about. Feel free to comment!

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Riding the emotional rollercoaster

So, for some reason, I've been having all these feelings lately, and two sessions at the computer later, the following word vomit came out. It's raw, barely edited and probably choppy and whatnot, but I don't particularly care. It's how I feel, and it's off my chest. It's about a crazy time in my life, when my dad died when I was 17, (July 1996), my grandpa died when I was 18, (January 1997) and my mom died a week before my 19th birthday. (October 1997)

So yeah. You were warned. Emotions abound ahead.

Helene

~~I
have random flashes of childhood memories. It’s unknown what triggers
them or what they “mean”, if anything. Suddenly it’s so strong, the
feelings, the memories, the little things. How things felt, the smell.
Little details flashing. A distinct textured wall. A sign outside.
Distant memories come crashing back. And the realization that there is
no one to ask about details, or even, “hey, do you remember this?” No
one is left. In the last couple years I was talking to my grandmother
about something that happened, and we both realized that all the other
people who where there are now dead, it’s only me and her left. That’s
sobering at times. Sometimes,
I feel lost. Like no one is there for me. I know deep down this isn’t
true, but the feeling is still there, deep down. I can’t call my mom and
dad when I want, to ask advice, or vent about life. I don’t have that.
And it’s said, whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. It’s true,
but sometimes I’m not strong enough inside. Sometimes I’m just a scared
little girl who wants to go home to mom and dad and have them protect
me, like they always did, and take care of me, like they always did. I
go to their graves once a year. I don’t really get time to do any more
than that, since I live 6 hours from where I grew up. I put in my
flowers, maybe pull a few weeds. Take a step back and stare at the
meager headstones, like somehow the image that is already permanently
burned into my brain might have somehow changed in the last year. Which
of course it hasn’t. But I stare anyway, letting my thoughts wander back
to two days of two funerals which I barely remember, lost in my grief. I
usually stand on the graves for a couple of minutes, and watch my kids
run and hop around the section of the cemetery, looking at names or
sniffing fake flowers or reading dates. With one more look down, maybe
one more brush off of some dirt, then a deep sigh, then I move on to the
next of the family tombstones. After
a few minutes reflecting at some other family stones, I usually head
back to my parents’ graves one last time for a couple more minutes of
reflection and staring before heading back across the road to the car. I
mean, what else can I do? No amount of grave sitting or wailing or
reflecting is going to bring them back. Six feet under where I was just
standing are the physical bodies of my parents, and have been for 15
years. There’s nothing I can do about that. It must be hard for people
who know me to see me, the only one left, just staring at the graves
like there can be some kind of connection still if I look hard enough.
Even if I’m with people, it’s still a very alone experience. Something
that no one else can ever understand. Most
of the time, I function fine. There are some days that chaotic year and
a half of my life doesn’t actively cross my mind. Those events did
change my life forever, and shape it at a young age. But it isn’t always
first and foremost every day any more. It’s been too long for that. But
some days, it’s as if it just happened. Usually around anniversary
dates, but it’s almost too early for that, as if grief has a timetable,
which i know it doesn’t. Time
does heal all wounds. But not completely. The deep wounds still leave
scars, and the scars can hurt too, even if it’s faint at times. I only
in the last 5 years had tremendous guilt for the way I treated my mother
after my father’s death, even though we were both too caught up in our
own grief to realize what we were doing to each other. I’m trying to
forgive myself. Then
the ‘what if’s’ hit me. What if they’d survived? What would my life had
been like? How could I have done things differently? But I can’t dwell
on that for long. I can’t say how it would have been different, and I’ll
never know. One
of the oddest feelings is realizing you’re an orphan. It’s not as
heartbreaking as seeing a small child lose both their parents, but
realizing it can be hard. For me it was in my sophomore year of college,
when I had to declare myself an orphan or a ward of the courts for
college financial aid. To see that in black and white, so clinically, is
jarring. In
the next 2 to 3 years, my parents will be gone longer than I knew them.
That’s a weird feeling. But I’ll probably always miss them, and grieve,
to a point. I could probably be 70 and sitting in a quiet corner
somewhere, and have that bit of wonder, of longing. Of what might have
been. I
feel like i’m forgetting them. Their voices, especially. I’m thinking
of contacting my grandma and see if she has any old cassette tapes that
she can send me, so I can somehow get it converted to digital and then I
won’t lose that part at least, although she’ll probably think the
cheese has finally slipped off my cracker.. One of my favorite pictures
is one that is last dated picture of my mom and dad and my uncle. Not
only because it’s one of the last pictures I can find of my father
before his death, but because of the details. I can look at it and say,
‘oh, yeah, that’s the color of the kitchen wall,’ or ‘hey, i remember
the little donkey salt and pepper shaker holder my mom had.”.. things
like that. After my parents died, after the house was taken down and
before the new one was in, I went over to the land. Even though it was
absolutely flat, I used the well as a memory placeholder and from there
retraced my steps through the ‘house’, ending in the kitchen where I
would look out the window over at my grandma’s house. When
I go to my grandma’s house now, I’ll still gaze over there, even if the
corn is too high and the house is different. I almost wish I could go
over there now, just for memories’ sake, but I don’t want to alarm the
current residents by having some random woman standing in the yard and
driveway staring off into the distance, remembering. Like the lyrics
from the Miranda Lambert song, The House that Built Me.You leave home and you move on and you do the best you canI got lost in this old world and forgot who I amI thought if I could touch this place or feel itThis brokenness inside me might start healingOut here it’s like I’m someone elseI thought that maybe I could find myselfIf I could just come in I swear I’ll leaveWon’t take nothing but a memoryFrom the house that built meTime may pass, voices and pictures may fade, but the memories never will.